


Dragons and Those Who Fight Them

by EmeraldPhoenix1221



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Expanded Universe, Gen, Retelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldPhoenix1221/pseuds/EmeraldPhoenix1221
Summary: As the dragons began to return, destiny chose a Dragonborn. That Dragonborn, Daren Novak, wishes destiny would have given the decision more thought. He knows he doesn't have a choice - but hopes he can at least get out of doing it alone.
Kudos: 1
Collections: A Nod to the Original Characters, The Elder Scrolls





	1. Old Friends

Daren Novak resented asking for help; he shouldn't have needed it.

He was the fabled Dovahkiin, a man with the soul of a dragon, a man whose job description included killing dragons and saving the world. Why did _he_ need help? Of course, he already knew the answer to that: he was terrible at his job. The last dragon he had encountered on his own nearly tore him to pieces, and certainly would have, had Daren not had the help of the Whiterun city guard to kill the damned thing.

He needed backup, that much was clear.

That's why he was on his way to the College of Winterhold to enlist the aid of the Archmage, Raven Thoros. Raven was probably the youngest ever Archmage, inheriting the title at only 25 in the aftermath of The Eye of Magnus Incident in 4E 198. Raven was... a friend, though Daren doubted that the feeling was mutual. They had run into each other while they were both exploring the same Dwarven ruin in The Rift. The resulting adventure consisted mostly of Raven keeping Daren from killing himself on one of the many traps or stumbling into a Falmer nest.

Daren was now on the road north out of Whiterun, heading to Dawnstar. He figured he could crash at the inn for the night, then hug the Sea of Ghosts all the way to Winterhold. As dangerous as that might be, it was the fastest way to get there, and time was of the essence. Daren wasn't properly outfitted, having only a antique steel sword his father had given him when he was 18 and rusty iron armor, so he did his best to stay out of combat.

Dawnstar was a small harbor and mining town on the Sea of Ghosts, built around Dawnstar Bay. Half of the town was built on a slight ridge that overlooked the bay, while the rest of the town was built on the shore of the bay itself.

By nightfall, Daren had staggered into Dawnstar's inn, the Windpeak. He groggily plopped down the 5 septims needed for a room, stumbled in, and promptly dropped into his bed. He awoke at the crack of dawn, much to his dismay, bought an apple for the road, then headed outside into the bitterly cold morning. His iron armor didn't provide much insulation from the harsh northern cold. He headed north, and was about to leave town when he saw a man with a medium sized rowboat.

“Offering ferries to cities and villages along the coast at fair prices!” The old man said.

Daren tossed the man a bag of septims. “Will that get me to Winterhold?”

“And back again.” The man said as he excitedly counted his coin. The old rower got into the boat and gestured for Daren to do the same. It turns out that the cold was just as bad, if not worse out on the water. He wasn't sure what he expected. About an hour later, the boat stopped a mile or so from Winterhold. Daren got out and thanked the man. He had impressed himself; he didn't think he could have made it this far without being...

_ROAR!_

… attacked by something.

_Crap,_ he thought, and turned to his right to see a Sabre cat rushing down the cliff face towards him. The giant cat skidded to a halt and vaulted from the outcropping it had stopped on. Daren had barely had enough time to draw his sword by the time it landed on him, knocking him straight to ground. After a short scuffle, and the loss of one of his helmet horns, Daren managed to get out from under the cat.

_Fus!_ He shouted. The cat toppled over, and Daren used that moment to plunge his sword into its throat. Blood spattered the crystalline snow as he wrenched his sword out, and the beast futilely gasped for air through a destroyed windpipe. Daren took a few breaths, then resumed his walk to Winterhold - battered, but thankfully still alive.

...

Winterhold was a shell of its former self, the remains of which still littered the bottom of the chasm separating the College from the rest of the town. Daren found it hard to believe that this pitiful hovel had once been the capital, the crown jewel of Skyrim. Those days, however, were long gone; what little remained the eastern half of Winterhold was in utter ruin, and the west only harbored the inn, a general shop, a few scattered houses, and the Jarl's hall. The College of Winterhold was still intact, and was the only remaining structure of Winterhold's decimated north and east quarters; this anomaly led many a troubled Nord to suspect the College mages had something to do with the Great Collapse. Daren hoped that those rumors were false. Nearing the bridge, he began to worry that Raven would simply refuse to help him at all. Daren looked up at the College when he came to the bridge across the chasm the Collapse had left. It was enormous, at least compared to any building Daren had ever seen. The building itself was made of black stone, and pillars of arcane currents rose from pools of water along the bridge. The high elf at the entrance to the bridge stopped Daren.

“Stop. The way is dangerous, and you shall not gain entry. What is your business here?”

Daren replied, simply, “I'm here to see the Archmage.”

“I see,” the elf replied. “And what makes you think I'm just going to let you across?”

“I'm the Dragonborn.”

The elf eyed Daren suspiciously. “Now, why would I...”

Daren rolled his eyes slightly and huffed. He shouted at the elf, staggering her. She regained her footing and eyed him cautiously. “My apologies. The Archmage actually isn't here right now. She should be in her house at the south end of town.”

Daren nodded his thanks and started for the small house near the remains of the southern wall.

...

Raven quite liked her little home. It was simple, rustic, but enough. There was a bedroom and a forge on the lower level, and an alchemy station and an enchanting table in a small room towards the back. She couldn't ask for much else. Sitting by the fireplace on the main floor eating her dinner and reading a book, dressed in the customary Archmage robes – which, besides being free, were surprisingly comfortable - she heard a knock at the door. Getting up, she threw her hood on. As she walked to the door, she began to wonder who would be calling at such a late hour. She _had_ been getting many visits regarding the dragons. Raven honestly didn't know what they expected her to do about it. _It's not like I'm the Dragonborn_ , she thought as she opened the door.

The first thing she noticed was how bitterly cold it had gotten; the second thing that hit her was the smell and sight of a large Nord man, dressed in full iron armor and with shoulder-length, disheveled blonde hair. He looked like he hadn't bathed in days. Smelled like it, too. She asked his name.

“Daren. Daren Novak,” the man replied.

Raven blinked as she racked her brain. _Daren. Where have I... oh, right,_ him. She debated whether or not to let him in, as he was a veritable walking disaster; whatever brought him here, it likely wasn't good news. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she let him in and invited him to sit down in the other, dust-covered chair at the table. After he got settled in, she sat down across from him and turned her gaze to her visitor's sky blue eyes.

“So. What is it?”

Novak took a minute before answering, with apparent difficulty, “I need your help.”

“Why? With what?” Raven knew that this man could probably use help finding his way back to his own house, but she was genuinely curious about what Daren seemed to be so worried about. She thought back to when they had first met about three years ago in Mzulft. She had been searching for information regarding the location of the Staff of Magnus from the Synod order of Imperial mages. Mages was a loose term, as the group was, by all accounts, more interested in the hoarding of artifacts and treasures than actually learning about the arcane. Traveling with her former companion, Kiana, Raven had entered that Dwemer ruin to find a dying Synod researcher and an unconscious Daren Novak. He had collapsed mere feet away from the exit due to exhaustion and dehydration. Once Kiana had helped him recover, however, Daren was incredibly headstrong. He was a fierce warrior, extremely adept with a sword and shield, and he could handle himself well in single combat. He just couldn't cope with the overwhelming number of Falmer in the ruins; that he had needed the mages' help for.

That headstrong, confident Nord man seemed like a distant memory as Raven analyzed Daren. His helmet was missing a horn, his face was caked with dirt and blood, and he reeked. Daren's eyes were down cast, brooding, like the weight of the world had just been thrust upon his shoulders. Perhaps it had been.

“I assume you're aware of the return of the dragons?” Daren finally replied, evading the original question for now.

“I'd have to be blind not to be.”

“Then you're also familiar with the Nord legend that the Dovahkiin would be the world's only chance of survival?”

“Of course.”

“Well, there's my problem. _I'm_ the Dragonborn, and, as you can see, I almost died getting here. So I need your help. I – I'm now in charge of saving the world, and I am _not_ a hero _._ I... I didn't know where else to turn.”

Raven stared at the broken man in front of her, unwilling to believe that he was the hero so many had prayed and wished for. Minutes passed as she analyzed Daren, sizing him up from head to toe. He was a sorry piece of work. To start, he wasn't properly outfitted for anything more than banditry. He only had an ancient sword which was on the verge of shattering and a suit of iron armor. Second, he seemed to be both physically and mentally exhausted. Last was the obvious problem of the dragons themselves. Though a Dovahkiin was theoretically capable of taking down a dragon, one as untrained as Daren would have an extremely tough time of things, even with Raven's help.

He would need new armor, new weapons, help, and - perhaps most importantly at the moment - a pint.

“Alright,” she said finally, standing. “We're going to the inn, you look like you need some rest and some mead, and you can't sleep here. I only got one bed.” Raven threw her hood over her head, pulled on a fur cloak, and strode toward the door. Daren stood up slowly and followed Raven outside into the blizzard.

...

For a town renowned for being a deserted backwater, the inn at Winterhold was surprisingly lively, though this was only due to the amount of refugees who had fled to Winterhold to find safety. Safety they found little of, but they did find shelter in the form of the College. At Raven's orders, the Hall of Countenance had been transformed into a shelter for the refugees coming into Winterhold. The northwest was sparsely populated, so there weren't many.

The inn was dense with a smog from the men smoking, and the loud exclamations of the drunk filled the main hall. Daren sat down at one the chairs around the fire pit in the center of the room and ordered some Honningbrew Mead. Raven took a seat at the bar, turned and leaned her back against the counter, and took in her surroundings. The Frozen Hearth was a nice enough place, but it was only meant to hold the odd traveler or two, nowhere near as many people who now crowded its walls. The pungent odor of tobacco lingered in the air along with the fog of half a dozen pipes. The women and children usually stayed at the College, but the men routinely came down to the inn for drinks and entertainment. One of these men, who had obviously had a copious amount to drink that night, groggily approached Raven with lust plain in his eyes.

He took a seat the bar just to the left of her, and she threw her hood up in attempt to avoid attention. The drunk was having none of it, and immediately made a move to pull it back down; this grabbed Daren's attention, who began to observe the situation with concern from his seat. Raven batted the man's hand away, and turned stare him down. By this point, the inn had gone completely silent and the only noises were the mice scurrying across the rafters and the bets being made by the patrons.

“Come, now, don't – **hic** – don't be difficult, hon. Let's – **hic** – make this easy, shall we?” the drunk crooned at Raven, who responded with a sneer. The drunk made another move for her, aimed at her face this time. She heated up her left glove so that it began to give off a faint glow, then grabbed the man's outstretched wrist. The drunkard yelped in pain as smoke began to rise from his burned skin, and he yanked his hand away. They were both standing now, facing each other, each glaring daggers at the other. “Come at me,” the drunk taunted. “I'll take you and... and your friend there,” he added, gesturing at Daren's general area.

Raven, hoping that the man was too drunk to read lips, mouthed _distract him_ to Daren, who then made his way over and tapped the belligerent drunk on the shoulder. As soon as he turned around, Daren's left fist connected with his jaw.

Disoriented, the drunk stumbled backwards into the counter; meanwhile, Raven maneuvered around to position herself across from the exit and gave Daren a signal to get the drunk in front of the door.

Daren began shepherding the man towards the exit, punching and parrying the groggy but powerful blows. Daren blocked a punch at his abdomen, then kicked the drunk in his, causing him to stumble back again: right into her line of sight.

The drunk looked to his right, and, seeing the woman who had started this brawl, began limping toward her. Raven smirked, then extended her right arm towards the drunk. A shock wave barreled toward the man, and he barely had time to widen his eyes in surprise before he was thrown through the door with tremendous force, flew above and past the porch, then finally hit the snow about five feet into the street.


	2. A Single Step

There was a tense few moments of complete silence following the confrontation, in which Daren caught his breath, Raven focused her thoughts, and the owner of the inn, Dagur, looked on in astonishment. The denizens of the inn gradually returned to their business, and Raven, anticipating an inevitable problem with what passed for the law in Winterhold, told Daren to pay for the door and rushed outside to confront the guard that had been on patrol. It was now near blizzard conditions outside, so the guard dragged the delirious drunk and Raven into the Jarl's longhouse for questioning.

After practically throwing the drunk into a chair, the guard turned on Raven.

“I suppose you have a reason for disturbing the peace at such a late hour... _Archmage.”_ He almost spat the last word. Raven had grown used to the outright hatred the College mages had to endure from Winterhold's people, especially after the city had been almost annihilated three years ago during the Eye of Magnus Crisis, so she paid it no mind.

“Well, he  _did_ challenge my friend and I to a fight,” Raven answered calmly.

“And he allowed magic to be used?”

“He was drunk out of his mind; I'd be surprised if he was aware enough to know where he was, let alone set terms for a fight.”

“Anything to say for yourself?” The guard turned to the drunk expecting an answer, but instead found him snoring, fast asleep. Despite multiple prods from the guard, the drunk remained in a deep sleep.

“Look, he needs some rest, and I assure you I'm telling the truth, there's at least six people in the Frozen Hearth that can confirm it, including the owner. Investigate further if you want, but I don't see a reason to waste your time. The damages are all paid for.”

The guard grudgingly accepted Raven's proposal, and promised to launch an interrogation session tomorrow afternoon. That was fine. She planned to be long gone by then. She crossed the road and returned to the inn, where Daren had just finished negotiating a price for the door. After they both apologized to Dagur, they made their way to the College's Archmage quarters, the highest point in the College. Once there, Raven invited Daren to have a seat on a chair just opposite the foot of her bed, while she leaned against the bed. She tossed Daren the bottle of mead that he had left unfinished, but he placed it on the ground beside him instead. He looked about a breath away from passing out. She watched him with concern. He took his helmet off and put it on his lap, then looked up at the ceiling.

“Of all the people to choose, why in Oblivion would the gods choose me? I'm not special, not the best warrior, not the most intelligent... I don't want to be a hero.” Daren spoke to the sky, but aimed his words at Raven. She could tell he was almost delirious with exhaustion, as he had said much the same thing to her earlier, but she decided to give him support now.

“It doesn't really matter what you want, unfortunately. You were born with a gift. Or a curse. Call it whatever you want, but you are the only one who is capable of saving Tamriel. I'm not going to let you shrug that responsibility off, but you can be damn sure I'll help you carry it. You're not going to do this alone.”

Her words seemed to reassure Daren, who smiled weakly. She suggested that they get some sleep. The Nord hardly needed the suggestion, and he fell asleep almost instantly. She grinned, but realized that she too, was feeling extremely tired; she fell back onto her bed, and was out cold.

...

Raven woke first, and, after changing into her ebony-armored dark blue robes, roused Daren. Judging by his grogginess, Daren had gotten a less than restful sleep. After a moment, he had fallen back to sleep, so she was forced to splash a handful of water from her water skin into his face in order to wake him up again. Even then, he slowly opened his eyes, and looked around, confused, as if he had forgotten the previous day's events. She waved at him and motioned to pack up _._ Daren was sluggish in getting his things together, and Raven made numerous attempts to hurry him before he responded.

“Look, Raven, I know we have a world to save, but can't you give me a bit longer? I think I'm still hungover,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“Well, I don't want to end up in the Chill if that guard finds an excuse to arrest us.”

“You say that like you couldn't break us outta there.”

She nodded slightly. “Sure, but being two escaped convicts doesn't exactly make saving the world any easier.” Daren thought about that for a bit longer than he should have, then voiced his agreement. As the two finally exited into the college courtyard, Raven broke off and asked Daren to meet her at the south wall. He hurried off to get the last of the supplies they would need to get to Ivarstead. She strode towards an aging man, who was seated on a bench engrossed in a book detailing Alteration theory.

As she approached, the man looked up from his book and asked, “Ah, hello, Raven. Where might you be going at such an early hour?”

“Ivarstead, then High Hrothgar. You're acting Arch-Mage until I return, Tolfdir.”

Tolfdir looked surprised, but nodded. “When would you be back?”

Raven hesitated, as her heart stopped for a split second, then said, “I don't know.”

“Is that an 'I don't know when' or 'I don't know if'?”

Raven grimaced. She had forgotten how perceptive Tolfdir was, even at his age. “Both,” she eventually said.

She smiled uneasily and turned to leave, but Tolfdir continued. “May I ask why you're going?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

Raven turned back to look her mentor in the eye. “Dragons.”

...

_Raven had a point,_ Daren thought as he walked through the freezing morning air to the South Wall. On the way there, he ran into a disagreement between what he assumed to be a brother and sister. Not wanting to get involved, Daren lingered about fifteen feet from the pair until the man abruptly ended the conversation and stomped into the inn. After waiting for what he thought was enough time as not to be rude, he decided to step into the general store to see if he could buy some kind of fur cloak to wear over his armor. After speaking to the owner, Birna, Daren settled on a black fur cloak for a manageable price.

“Alright, that will be 50 septims,” Birna said, laying the cloak on the counter.

Daren reached for his coin pouch, but was surprised to find it missing. He then sighed in exasperation as he remembered that he had spent all of his gold on the boat ride to Winterhold and the repairs for the incident at the Frozen Hearth. Birna looked at Daren expectantly and he grinned sheepishly back, hoping that Raven would finish whatever she was doing and find him. Between the two of them, she had all of the money, and even that wasn't much. Birna sighed and was about to place the cloak back on the shelf when Raven burst through the door, letting in a gust of wind. The roar of the blizzard pierced the stillness of the room.

“There you are,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the storm, and shut the door behind her. Looking between Daren and Birna, she asked, now in a quieter tone, “What's the problem?”

_Money_ , he mouthed. Raven nodded and began to speak with Birna, while he went to wait by the door. After a few minutes, Raven took out the fifty septims for the cloak and thanked Birna. He took the cloak from Raven, threw it on, and the two made for the carriage driver at the South Wall. They jumped in the back after paying the fee, and began the long journey to Ivarstead.


	3. Alduin's Envoy

Raven woke to a stabbing pain in her temple, like someone had driven a spear between her eyes. She thought for a moment that perhaps someone had, but quickly dismissed the idea - she was still alive. She became vaguely aware of it raining, a torrential downpour that had soaked her robes through to the leather lining and churned the ground beneath her to a mess of blood, water, and mud. It took Raven a few moments to realize that the blood was not her own, and when she did, she slowly and painfully picked her head up and looked around to find the source. What she saw was utter carnage.

It was the dead of night, and the darkness was almost permeable, shattered only by the sporadic bursts of lighting that illuminated the area. During these moments, which, because of the sheer violence of the storm, were often, Raven was able to piece together her surroundings. The carriage she and Daren had been riding in was demolished completely, with wood strewn over the road. The carriage driver was lying face-up about ten feet to Raven's right, his throat slit by a jagged stone that he had fallen upon, and his blood now flowed in rivulets and pooled in the puddles of rainwater. His horse, however, was nowhere to be seen.

If she had been slightly less beaten up, she probably would have found that fact odd.

She finally stood up, which was no small feat, considering that she had, by her estimate, a sprained ankle and wrist - at least.

She took another look around and finally, to her relief, located Daren. Before she could call out to him, however, there was a large gust of air behind her, and the ground shook. Raven spun around, but saw nothing in the darkness. When a flash of lightning lit up the world once again, she almost couldn't comprehend what she saw.

Raven had never seen a dragon before. She had heard the stories, of course, everyone had, but stories didn't do the demon justice.

Its head was covered in protective, hardened scales everywhere but beneath its neck, and its eyes shone a deep purple in the lightning flashes. The dragon's neck was long and sinuous, reminiscent of a snake, and it led down to the creature's enormous body covered in the same scaling. It was colored a dark shade of blue, with two green stripes running down its back from its horns to its tail. The wings seemed to double as forearms, and they too matched the gargantuan proportions of the beast.

Raven was frozen in fear as the dragon suddenly started to move toward her slowly, as if it was reveling in the abject terror it caused her. The beast stopped only fifteen feet from her, then spoke in a guttural tongue she couldn't understand. She couldn't even identify it.

“Zu'u los Yahsoviir. Los hi gein nust faan Dovahkiin? ( _I am Yahsoviir. Are you the one they call Dragonborn?_ )” When Raven failed to respond, Yahsoviir seemed to grin. “Ah, krosis, I forget that your kind do not speak the Dovahzhul. There will be no glory in killing you, mortal, if you are not my prey.” With that, Yahsoviir reared his head back and began, “Yol Toor-,” but was cut off by a shout that knocked his head off to the side and his fire spat into the sky. Yahsoviir looked to his left, surprised, and spotted his quarry. “Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin. ( _Greetings, Dragonborn_ )”

...

Daren looked at Yahsoviir, remembering that it was said that some particularly old or powerful dragons could, should they choose, give off an aura of fear. He knew he was caught in it. Yahsoviir gave a deep laugh.

“Scared, Dovahkiin?” the dragon asked mockingly. This dragon was huge, even bigger than Mirmulnir, the dragon Daren had killed outside Whiterun. Yahsoviir was also colored quite differently, being dark blue and green instead of the metallic silver Mirmulnir had been. He skulked toward Daren slowly and stared into his eyes, then, as if he wanted to even the playing field, Yahsoviir dropped his aura.

Raven acted first. Daren hadn't realized her true power as a mage; in fact, all he had seen her do so far was heat up her hand and throw a man through a door. Depending on how stupid he was feeling, he could do both of those things rather easily. He had heard rumors that she could melt the snow off of the Throat of the World and even stop time itself, and, truth be told, he had been a bit let down.

It looked like those weren't just rumors.

Even from his distance, Daren could see Raven's green eyes glow for a split second before she was engulfed in a cloak of flames, the heat of which singed the grass around her and heated up the puddle behind her to the boiling point, but appeared to leave her unscathed. After she had gotten Yahsoviir's attention, she moved her hands toward the dragon, and the firestorm that had surrounded her just moments before now coalesced into a stream of white-hot flame and smashed into the right side of Yahsoviir's head. He growled in pain, but from Daren couldn't see the extent of the damage from his angle. It must have left quite the mark, because before Raven could prepare another volley, Yahsoviir retaliated.

“Fus ro dah!” the dragon screamed. The resulting shock wave knocked Raven off her feet and she tumbled about 10 feet before coming to a halt. Before she could so much as stand, Yahsoviir was on her, showcasing for the first time just how agile he was. The dragon opened its maw and began the fire shout again, but Daren had thrown a piece of the carriage at him, interrupting him for the second time.

“Fight me, you slimy bastard!” he yelled, hoping to goad Yahsoviir into leaving Raven alone and coming after him. It struck him suddenly that he wasn't dealing with a bear or troll. Dragons were cunning, cold, calculating. He thought Yahsoviir was simply going to kill Raven right then, and then finish him off.

Somewhat fortunately, it seemed dragons also tended to have sadist streaks.

Yahsoviir turned his head back to look Daren in the eye, grinned and then clawed his front talons into Raven's leg, tearing through the ebony armor. She gave a wail of pain, and slunk back to the ground, grasping her mangled leg between her hands. Yahsoviir wheeled his massive form around to fully face Daren. The entire right side of his head was charred beyond recognition, and some parts of it were still red with hot embers. He gave a toothy, mocking smile.

“Coming to the damsel's rescue, Dovahkiin?” the dragon mocked before starting a fire shout for the third time. Daren knew that if Yahsoviir was allowed the time to finish his shout, it would be far too late. Dragon's fire was a death sentence to anything short of another dragon. He shouted again to stop the dragon from ending the fight before it began, then, in a moment of brief idiocy, rushed at the beast with his shield up.

When he reached Yahsoviir, he bashed the shield into the dragon's head.

Immediately, he regretted that decision.

It was like hitting a stone wall, and Daren had the wind knocked out of him. Yahsoviir was also taken aback by the attack, but was stunned not by the force of the attack, but its sheer insanity.

Daren recovered before the dragon, and was thankful he had, for he was close enough for Yahsoviir to swallow him whole in an instant. Thinking fast, he jammed the point of his sword into the dragon's right eye. Yahsoviir gave a tortured growl and recoiled as his eye spurted blood; he recovered fast and shot his head forward again.

Instead of his massive jaws clamping down on Daren's head, they closed around his shield.

Daren and Yahsoviir both knew that the shield couldn't hold much longer. Thinking fast, Daren stabbed his sword up into the dragon's now gaping maw, hoping to strike the soft tissue of the upper mouth.

Daren heard more than saw that he had succeeded. Yahsoviir violently recoiled, pulling his shield clean off of his arm and throwing it off to the side. He stumbled backward and hit the ground. The wounded dragon coughed twice, and, coated in blood, Daren's sword fell from his mouth. Daren, now without a weapon or shield, waited for death.

“I had underestimated you, Dovahkiin.” Yahsoviir's speech was slurred, and blood dripped from his mouth as he spoke. He spat at Daren. “But even you cannot kill a true Dovah by yourself.”

With that, Yahsoviir struck forward with his head much like a snake. Daren ducked and rolled to his left, toward the corpse of the carriage driver. Yahsoviir turned to him again, and reared back to give the final blow. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Daren grasped for the dead man's steel war ax, which lay just inches from his lifeless hand. Finally, after grasping in the dark for what felt like hours, Daren's fingers closed around the hilt. He heard Yahsoviir behind him, and quickly turned over and hit Yahsoviir in the ravaged right side of his face with the flat of the head, stunning Yahsoviir long enough for Daren to scramble to his feet and face the dragon. Yahsoviir laughed, choked on his own blood, and coughed. Blood and rain dripped from his chin.

“Alduin sends his greetings. He was unable to kill you at Helgen. You escaped, and now I can see why. You are a lucky one, Dovahkiin. But now I have come to correct my lord's mistake. Your luck has run out. You are doomed.”

Yahsoviir pulled his head back again and began the fire shout for the fourth and final time. Yet again, he was interrupted, this time by Raven, who had regained enough energy to stand, and was now pouring all of it into keeping Yahsoviir still and pulling back his head with telekinesis, exposing the soft underside of his neck.

Daren took the initiative. He charged at Yahsoviir screaming like a madman and, wielding the war ax two-handed, plunged the blade into the dragon's throat. He wrenched the ax free, and Yahsoviir's dark blood pulsed out of the wound in time with the dragon's heartbeat. Daren stepped back as Raven released Yahsoviir's head and it slammed into the road. The dying dragon choked out a final sentence.

“Alduin los krongrahkei, Dovahkiin; hin lein los daniik wah niil dez. ( _Alduin is victorious, Dovahkiin; your world is doomed to its fate._ )”

Yahsoviir gave one last cry, but it was drowned out by an enormous clap of thunder. For a minute or so, the only sound was the falling rain and periodic thunder. Daren sunk to his knees in front of the corpse, which had begun to be engulfed in flames as he absorbed the soul of the dragon. Before long, there was nothing left but bones, and he felt a little less tired. A cry of pain echoed and he realized he had forgotten about Raven, who had slunk back to the ground. He steeled himself as he approached, tried to be ready for whatever the wound might look like, but even so, he wasn't prepared.

_Son of a bitch,_ he thought as he got close enough to see the severity of the injury.

Raven was bleeding profusely from a slash in her right leg that was incredibly deep. Her red hair was matted to her head and face by the rain, and she had bit open her lower lip from clenching her teeth. The ebony plate that had been protecting her shin was mangled beyond repair and was ripped jagged so that the edges dug into the wound if she shifted position. Daren was taken aback by how pale Raven was; her normal complexion was light, but it was obvious to even his untrained eye that she had lost far too much blood. She winced as he took her hands gently away from her legs, but otherwise made no other sound.

Thinking fast, Daren ran to the dead carriage driver and quickly went through his pack of belongings. At last, he found what he needed and rushed back to Raven. Gingerly lifting up her leg, he tied the shirt in a tourniquet above the wound to stop the bleeding. He knew a tourniquet was supposed to be a last resort, but Raven was in danger of bleeding out.

He tried to get his bearings by looking around during a bout of intense lightning. There was a giant's camp just across the river to the north-east and to the north, the river curved sharply south from the west. He could just make out the sound of a waterfall. Valtheim Falls. They were close to Whiterun.

He carefully picked up Raven despite her cry of protest and started north up the road.


	4. Fate and Chance

De'vohn had been told at the briefing that Valtheim would be a dangerous post; being on the border between Eastmarch and White Hold, it changed hands almost weekly. 

They didn't mention any gods-damned dragons, he'd thought when that gargantuan monster had flown overhead. 

He hated the Legion. He hated the Stormcloaks, too, but they hadn't apprehended him and forced him to join their ranks. They would have, he was sure, if given the chance, but they hadn't yet. They were better for that, if only just.

Three weeks ago, De'vohn had been inside a Dwarven ruin in the Rift, close to finding the legendary Aetherium forge. He had visited the College in Winterhold months before to compare notes with the Archmage, who had also been conducting research into the subject, though not in the field for at least two years. After speaking with her for several hours, he believed he had finally narrowed down its location. It was housed in a hidden Dwemer ruin in the Rift, which needed four shards of pure Aetherium to open the stairwell to it. The Archmage had had one, and he had gathered the rest. He had used the rest of his money to pay off the bandits who had set up a camp over the ruins, figuring that the items that could be created by the forge would be worth a fortune. 

He had slept in his own tent for the night, and awoke the next morning to pandemonium. An Imperial fort garrison had been dispatched to the ruin to scour the bandit camp, as it had been located a bit too close for comfort. Half of the bandits were cut down before the rest broke ranks and scattered into the forest. 

The Imperials assumed that he was their leader, no doubt convinced by his better quality armor and the fact that he had slept in his own tent. They gave him an ultimatum: join the Legion, or go to prison. Naturally, De'vohn elected to join the Legion rather than rot in jail, and so he ended up here at Valtheim for his first post. As cannon fodder in a war he cared nothing about. 

De'vohn stood on the road, his leather helmet doing little to protect his head from the torrential down pour. He thought he had heard a dragon's death throes a moment before, but it had been drowned out by a thunderclap, so he couldn't be sure. 

He was about to change shifts with another Auxiliary when he saw a large Nord stumbling up the road with what looked to be a corpse in his arms. He turned around and ran into the south tower, up the stairs and across the bridge to the north tower, where command was located. 

De'vohn pounded up the stairs and faced his captain, who quickly took her feet off of her desk and tried her best to conceal the fact that she had been sleeping on the job. De'vohn tried his best to ignore it.

“The hell do you want now, Auxiliary?” She asked groggily.

“There's a Nord carrying a body to the east on the road. I'm going to check it out.” He quickly turned towards the stairwell, but was stopped by the captain's sharp reply.

“I'm sorry, Auxiliary, I think you were drowned out by a thunderclap there. Care to repeat what you just said?”

De'vohn clenched his jaw. “Permission to investigate, ma'am?” He said through gritted teeth. The captain gave a curt nod, and De'vohn headed back to the road. 

He arrived just in time to meet the man and stop him from continuing up the road. Apparently bemused that he had to go through an Imperial checkpoint, the Nord grimaced. De'vohn quickly took the corpse's pulse as a matter of course.

To his surprise, she was still alive, if catatonic and feverish. But if the pair were unable to reach the temple in Whiterun within the next half hour, she was as good as dead. Walking, they would never make it in time. He ran to the makeshift stables, took the fastest horse, and brought it to the Nord.

“Get on and ride for Whiterun, don't stop, don't slow down. I'll follow behind on foot,” he told the man. The Nord gingerly placed the woman in the saddle, then climbed up onto the horse himself, where he hesitated for a moment, probably due to exhaustion. 

“GO!” De'vohn shouted, and smacked the horse's rump with his left hand, setting the animal running at full gallop down the road. He had a feeling that the great speed would not do wonders for the woman's condition, but there was no other option. 

He ran into the south tower to collect his meager belongings, not bothering to tell anyone where he was going. He scarfed down an invisibility potion he had smuggled in and took off down the road in pursuit of the pair. 

He knew he would never come back to the Legion, not after tonight. 

He had recognized that woman; she was the Archmage of the College of Winterhold. He didn't know why she traveled with the strange Nord, but he knew that whatever the reason was, and whatever quest they were embarked upon, it was more important than his current occupation. He ran through the midnight rain to Whiterun a deserter, an outlaw. But now, at least, he had regained a purpose.

...

De'vohn arrived at Whiterun fifteen minutes after Raven and the Nord, and made for the inn where he knew the Nord would go after leaving the Archmage in the care of the healers at the Temple of Kynareth. 

He walked in, took off his helmet, and sat by the fire, trying to dry off his saturated fur. _Khajiit were not designed well for rain_ , he thought as he wrung out his tail with one hand, ignoring the weird look he got from the Altmer across the fire. 

He was used to that. 

The Great War had left both of his parents dead when he was only five, so he had ended up raised in Skyrim by foster parents. Naturally, he had adopted many customs and mannerisms of his surrogate family, including his speech patterns, his habit of wringing his tail out when wet, along with many others. An hour later, after De'vohn had passed the time talking to a wine enthusiast and a wizard that seemed enthralled with dragons, the Nord finally arrived.

He had sensed vaguely when he had first seen him that there was something different about the man, but now his suspicions were all but confirmed. As the Nord walked in, the very air seemed to tingle with an ancient power, and most of the patrons in the inn stopped to look at him. 

De'vohn had heard of the dragon that had been sighted near Whiterun, and had heard the Graybeards call the Dovahkiin, but he hadn't made the connection earlier. 

The Dragonborn had killed that dragon, been summoned to High Hrothgar, and sought out the help of the Archmage. De'vohn suddenly felt that the quest this man and Raven were embarked upon was far above him, but decided to pose the question anyway, realizing that the worst they could do was refuse his help. 

Considering the odds they were up against, that didn't seem likely. 

The Nord sat down at a table in the corner of the inn, but De'vohn caught his eye and gestured for him to take a seat with him by the fire. The Dragonborn hesitated, possibly taking into account the fact that De'vohn had still not returned to his post at Valthiem, effectively making him a deserter, but eventually walked over to him. The Nord sat down next to De'vohn, evidently still wary of his intentions. His eyes lingered on De'vohn's right hand. Rather, the lack thereof. De'vohn quickly pulled his sleeve down over his stump, both to make the man feel more at ease, and to hide the Dwemer sword mechanism that was attached to his arm. 

He handed the the Nord a bottle of Honningbrew mead as a welcoming gesture, which caused the man to become visibly more comfortable with De'vohn. After he had picked his own drink back up, De'vohn asked the Dragonborn his name.

“Daren. Daren Novak,” he said in between drinks. “Yours?”

“I am De'vohn, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dragonborn,” he said, deliberately letting his as-yet unproven assumption slip to see how this Daren would react. His drink stopped midway to his mouth and he stared ahead for a moment, unblinking, before turning to De'vohn and eyeing him. De'vohn smiled in response, inviting Daren to speak.

The Nord huffed and said, “That obvious?”

De'vohn shrugged. “To an observant eye. Who else would travel with the Archmage in such troubled times? Who else would exert such an aura of power?” He took another sip of his drink.

Daren stretched out his legs and crossed his feet in front of him. Seemingly eager to turn the conversation away from himself, he asked, “Why don't you speak in third person like other Khajiit?”

De'vohn smiled knowingly, but told his story. Daren nodded and stared into the fire. After a minute or two of silence came an abrupt question.

“Do you believe in fate?”

De'vohn was caught off guard, but recovered quickly.

“No,” he said cautiously, as he knew most people were quite superstitious in most parts of Tamriel. “A man makes his own destiny. The factors that affect his decisions, I'm reasonably sure, are beyond his control, but I would not prescribe them to fate.”

“To what would you 'prescribe it to,' then?” the Dragonborn pressed.

“Chance. Luck.” He stared down into his cup. “The Aedra would care little for the fate of mortals.” 

De'vohn and Daren fell silent. “Which presents an interesting problem in your case,” De'vohn said after a few moments. “You have been granted a gift, which makes you our only chance against the dragons. But you are not invincible. A stray arrow, an unblocked strike from a bandit... they could all easily end your life, and take the world with it. You will need all the help, all the protection you can get.” He looked Daren directly in the Nord's ice blue eyes. “I would ask that you let me accompany you and the Archmage.”

Daren blinked and finished his mead in one tremendous gulp. He belched, then said, “I'd love for you to come, but I'll have to ask what Raven thinks.”


	5. Party of Three

Raven's eyes shot open, and the phantom dragon disappeared from her view. She bolted upright, realized that the shade had been a nightmare, and rubbed her eyes with her hands. She guessed by the layout of the building that she was in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun, though how she had gotten there, she didn't know. Pulling up the pant leg of the clothes she had been given, she saw, with no small amount of relief, that the gash in her leg was now only a scar. Ignoring the throbbing in her head, Raven slid off the table she had been lying on and strode over to a priestess, Danica. The priestess was busy mending a farmer's broken arm, but finished and turned to Raven with a look of concern. Raven spoke before the priestess had a chance.

“Do you know what happened to my armor?”

Danica looked at her in astonishment. “You should still be resting, Archmage. That was a wound that would have killed most others. It would be best if you stayed another few days.”

Raven leaned on a pillar to steady herself, and took a few deep breaths. 

“Danica, I appreciate your concern, but I don't think I have enough time to stay here.” She coughed and steadied her breath. After a few seconds of silence, Danica sighed.

“Fine. I guess I don't have any real authority over you. Your armor was sent to the Skyforge to be repaired.” Danica handed her a comb. “At least comb your hair.”

Raven smiled and made her way outside. The early morning sun lit the clear late summer sky into a brilliant pallet of orange and blue and the birds were just beginning to sing. She pulled the knots out of her hair as she made her way across the courtyard to the Skyforge, which was already billowing steam from its place on top of an outcropping. Raven slowly walked up the steps to the forge. She stuck the comb in her pocket and walked to Eorlund Gray-Mane, the master smith who worked the forge. He smiled as she approached.

“Good morning, Miss. Can I help you?” Eorlund asked.

“Yes, I've been told you have my ebony plate mail,” Raven responded.

Eorlund's eyes widened in surprise as he realized who she was.

“Ah, yes, Archmage Thoros. I believe I have it here somewhere.” He rummaged around in a pile of arms and armor to the right of the forge until he found the armored robe. Handing it to Raven he remarked, “I had to be careful with this one. There were some... strange enchantments on it. Didn't want to disturb them. It was surprisingly light for ebony.”

Raven smiled and thanked Eorlund for the repairs. She returned to the courtyard, then walked to the inn, figuring that was where Daren would have gone. She opened the door as quietly as she could and stepped inside. Most of the people staying at the inn were still asleep, leaving only three in the parlor. A Khajiit that she vaguely recognized was sitting in a chair, half asleep, Daren was sitting at the table farthest from her, and the barkeep was absentmindedly spinning a top at the counter. She sat down at the counter and asked for a cup of water and a wickwheat muffin. Daren finished what he was drinking and strode over to the counter, taking the seat to her left. Raven, her mouth still full, looked at Daren, nodded at the Khajiit and then arched an eyebrow. 

“Name's De'vohn. He wants to help us with the whole... saving the world thing,” he said. “What do you think?”

Raven swallowed and downed the glass of water in one gulp, much to Daren's surprise. “Well, we'd be stupid to turn away help... but let me talk to him first,” she said. With that, she walked to the Khajiit and sat down in the chair on the other side of the table. She nudged his leg softly with her foot. The Khajiit snapped awake, and out of his right sleeve came a Dwemer sword about two feet long. He blinked a few times, looked around in apparent alarm, then retracted his blade and sat back down. He turned to Raven and inclined his head. 

“Archmage,” he greeted her. She was staring down at his right hand... or where his right hand would be. She caught herself before it became apparent and looked into the fire pit, where only ashes remained. With a small breath, she reignited the fire. Turning back to De'vohn, Raven began to examine the strange Khajiit with renewed interest. 

He was just about an inch taller than she was. Which is to say, not very tall. Despite that, he was strongly built, something she could have never boasted. De'vohn's eyes were a deep brown that seemed to glow in the firelight, and gave his face a warm and inviting feel. His eyes matched the color of his fur, a brown that was uncommon in most Khajiit. His face was striped with white war paint, a design in which the lines started at his nose, then spread out, encapsulating his face. The armor he was wearing suggested that he was (or had been) a soldier in the Imperial Legion, which would prove helpful. However, if he had deserted, his wanted status in the western holds would probably make their party a target for bounty hunters. There was a curious instrument attached to his left arm that was connected to his hand with copper wires. She asked him about his hand and the strange golden half-sphere on his arm. 

“Dwemer technology,” came the cryptic response. De'vohn then clenched his left fist, and the half-sphere spiraled out into a golden shield that shimmered in the firelight. With the same motion, the sword shot out of his other sleeve. Raven was taken aback in spite of herself, and De'vohn laughed, evidently used to the reaction. He flexed his arm again, and the shield folded back into the sphere. His sword retracted, leaving only his stump of a hand behind. The Khajiit sat back down and, after another minute or so of silence, asked Raven a blunt question.

“So, can I join you two?”

Raven took a moment to think. De'vohn would be another mouth to feed, another person to worry about, and might prove to be more of a burden unless he was a good enough fighter. Add to that the fact that he was, quite possibly, a deserter, and they would have to defend themselves against assassins and thugs of every color. He might slow down a mission that was already racing against time. That would never do; he would never do.

“Absolutely.”


End file.
